


Give Tongue

by leiascully



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Light Bondage, Oral Sex, lokipologies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 00:51:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1100516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sif has some very particular ideas about how Loki should apologize.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Give Tongue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bechedor79](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bechedor79/gifts).



"Lady," Loki says, appearing so close to her that his breath tickles her ear as he whispers.

"Highness," she says, refusing to be troubled by his illusions. The lean warmth of him at her elbow is real enough. She lifts her goblet to her lips and lets the mead rest in her mouth. The sweetness of it burns the tender skin inside her cheeks. When she swallows, it warms her all the way down to her belly. 

"They ought to honor you at this banquet," Loki says. "The victory was yours."

Sif sips again at her goblet. Her elbow brushes the velvet edges of Loki's cloak. "How long have we known each other, my lord?"

"Centuries," Loki says. 

"And still you think I am insensible to your maneuverings?" she asks, turning her face toward his. She refuses to pull back, to show him any quarter, and their cheeks wedge together briefly before he moves. The metal of his helmet is warm against her skin. "I know you, my lord. I know your ways."

"Then tell me, lady, what is my wish?" His teeth gleam as he smiles, outwardly affable, but she will never misunderstand the yearnings of his shadowed heart. 

"Mischief," she answers simply. "Mayhem and chaos, which you have loved from our youth. You wish to divide us. You wish to make me feel the injustice of their disregard. The Lady Sif and the Warriors Three, forever together and forever separate. You wish to impress upon me that whatever my accomplishments, we shall never be the Warriors Four with no distinction between us, that I shall never escape the burden of my womanhood."

"How terribly rude of me," he says, sounding amused. His voice is warm. He shifts his weight, leaning very slightly closer to her.

"It is," she tells him, taking another mouthful of mead and letting the sugared heat of it simmer through her. "Truly, my lord, you would wound me. But you mistake yourself, and you mistake me."

"Do elaborate, lady," he says, taking a goblet of mead from a passing servant and swallowing a long draught. 

"You act as if I was unaware of my situation," she tells him, looking into his eyes. There are gold flecks in the green of them tonight. Perhaps it is the candlelight. Perhaps it is a reflection from the sheen of his helmet, which cups close against his face. Perhaps it is the mead that coats the inside of her goblet and the inside of her mouth with gold. Perhaps it is the glow of victory that still tingles in her blood, though she sits not at the head of the table. "And yet, I am not. The Lady Sif will always remain apart. I have lived with the truth of this every minute of my life. I am the goddess of war, and yet I shall always have Lady appended to my title of Warrior, just as the second prince of Asgard will always retain that title, however he reaches for the throne."

"You pierce me quite through, lady," he says after a moment. 

"But I do not mistake you," she tells him. 

"Truly you have a warrior's heart," he says. "You hesitate not an instant before you strike the killing blow." 

She sighs. "And you have a mind suited for dominion," she tells him. "Your tongue wages a slow and subtle campaign that cuts no less than my sword."

"Have I truly wounded you, lady?" he asks, all solicitous charm once more. "That was never my intention."

"My lord, I have listened to your lies since we played at soldiers in the courtyard under your mother's watch," she tells him. "Do not think I shall be taken in. I have the measure of you."

"Let me make my apologies to you," he tells her, taking a swallow of his mead. A flush has risen to color the arching bones of his cheeks. His hand settles at the small of her back. "There are other ways my tongue can make amends."

"That would take a mighty work indeed," she says lightly. "Is your tongue worthy of such deeds?"

"Now, Lady Sif, have faith in my tongue," he chides. "Of all people, you seem to know best the exercise it has taken."

"Your tongue has borne its share," she tells him. Her corset feels too tight, too hot, and her skirts too heavy. Strange that she never feels confined by the snug leather of her armor the way that she feels confined by silk and satin. "Your tongue has talked its way to victories without count, and yet, it has not redeemed itself in my eyes." 

"Give my tongue leave for one night," Loki suggests. "Perhaps it can change your mind." The gentle caress of his fingers at her hip leaves little doubt as to the meaning of his words. 

"Would we miss the rest of this magnificent feast?" Sif asks diffidently. There is more tingling in her veins now than victory. 

"Without question," Loki assures her. "For which I would have to make further amends, undoubtedly."

"Then I can think of nothing I would like better," she tells him. She quaffs the last of her mead and leaves her goblet in a niche, taking Loki's from his long fingers and setting it next to hers. "Shall we retire, my lord? 

They make their way to Loki's chambers, his hand still at the small of her back, guiding her down the long corridors as if she does not know the way. Centuries they have known each other - even if she had not taken her pleasure from his nimble fingers and lithe body more than once over their long acquaintance, she would still be able to find his rooms. Sif's skirts whisper over the floor. No one questions them. Sif wonders if Loki has cast some glamour over them, if they can even be seen, verdant and crimson and gold in the shadowy halls, but she finds she cares little. Asgard need not know her affairs; some part of her life will be her own, left off of the scrolls of history rather than held up for the examination of her liege, to be judged worthy. She will judge the merits of this herself.

Loki holds the door wide for her, ushering her into his chambers with an ironic little bow. Sif holds her head high as she enters. There is a fire lit in the hearth, and she breathes deep, inhaling the mingled scents of woodsmoke and old books, lined up carefully on their shelves far away from the fire. There is a sharp, spicy, earthy scent touched with mint as well: Loki's cologne, perhaps, given that she always catches the drift of it when he is near, but it is stronger here. She breathes deeper, filling her lungs with him. Her head feels clearer now than it did at the banquet. She turns to face Loki, whose face is a pale gleam above the dark velvet of his suit. 

"Well, my lord?" she says. "I await your tender efforts."

"Shall we dispense with the pleasantries, lady?" he asks. "I am not your lord, as you so deftly pointed out. You owe me neither honor nor allegiance. Unless it pleases you to hear your title from my lips."

"Will you never yield, Loki?" she asks. "You have my allegiance whether you will it or not."

"Oh, yes, the name of Odinson commands a great deal of fealty," he says, a very slight bitterness clipping his words short.

She puts two fingers under his chin and pulls him closer. "Whatever mischief your tongue has wrought, you have earned my faith on your own merits. You may believe me or you may doubt me. I will not waste my breath soothing imaginary hurts." She pushes him away again. "I did not come here to discuss matters of loyalty. No more words."

"I am at your command, lady," he says, a curious look in his eyes.

She turns her back to him so that he can loosen the ties of her gown - if it were not for the scolding of her handmaidens, she would take a knife to the insignificant bits of satin and free herself, but in deference to the sewing they have done on her behalf, she accepts Loki's aid. He brushes her hair over her shoulder, the curls spilling heavy and silky and perfumed over her bare collarbones. She feels his lips ghost over the nape of her neck, but she will not shiver. She stands firm and steady as his fingers move over her back, sliding under the ribbons, easing the hold of her corset bit by bit. Every breath she takes is deeper. Finally he eases the shoulders of her gown down her arms, sliding the fabric over her breasts and her ribs and her hips until she can step out of it, leaving her slippers in the heap of stiff satin. She stands before him in her chemise. He gazes at her, still wearing his cloak, his finery, and his helmet.

"You have the advantage of me," she points out.

"Dear lady, I will never have the advantage of you," he says, his voice wry. "No armor would be proof against the steel in your eyes."

"You flatter me," she says, beginning to work at the fastenings of his clothes. She undoes the buttons and closings of his jacket, pushing at it until he shrugs out of it. She enjoys the sight of him in his cloak and his undershirt. His breeches are snug over the muscles of his thighs. After a moment, she reconsiders, unfastening the brooch at his neck and letting the heavy velvet of his cloak slide off his shoulders.

"Leave the helmet on," she says, sauntering towards his bed.

"And the rest?" he asks.

"That depends on the merits of your tongue," she tells him, looking over her shoulder. She reclines on his bed, pulling a pillow under her head. "I am prepared to accept your amends."

"As I am ever prepared to offer them, lady," he says, putting one knee on the bed. He slips a hand under her foot, cupping her heel, lifting her leg until he can kiss her ankle. 

"Wait," she says, and he lets her foot rest again on the bed, a questioning look on his face. She sits up, reaching for his undershirt, pulling him toward her. His hands rest outside her thighs, bracing himself as he yields to her. Her mouth meets his with a shock of heat. His lips are already open under hers. She nips at him and pushes her tongue into his mouth. The edges of his helmet press against her forehead and her cheek. She kisses him until she can feel how swollen her lips are, how hot their faces have become, how tense his forearms are against her thighs. She reaches out and brushes her toes against the tight leather of his breeches until she reaches the evidence of his desire. He groans very quietly and she swallows the sound, desire and triumph simmering together in her blood. 

"Now," she tells him. "Your tongue may have its say."

He leans forward to kiss her knee, his eyes darker than before but still flecked with gold. She smiles as he rakes his teeth over her tender skin. Loki has never held himself back from her. He does not pretend she is something gentler than she is; she does not pretend he is less clever. Their arrangement has always been mutually satisfying. She expects no less of this evening.

His mouth wanders up her inner thighs. Sif holds her breath as he sucks at her skin. He takes his time - ever the strategist, Loki. He approaches her as a puzzle, not a conquest. Sif appreciates the contrast. He slips his hands under her hips and pulls her closer, down to the end of the bed, and Sif catches hold of her pillow, resettling it under her head. She measures her breath, holding back any sound. She knows him - he will take her cries of pleasure as evidence of his victory, as if they were waging war on each other. Instead, she stays silent and enjoys the sight of his helmet between her legs. She squeezes her thighs around it, holding him steady mere inches from the fabric of her undergarments. 

"Your mouth has not been particularly eloquent thus far, Loki," she says, though the flush on her skin belies her words. "How unlike it."

"Believe me, lady, it has only awaited the proper moment to give tongue," he tells her, speaking into the space between her legs. He cannot tilt his his face to meet her gaze, but his eyes look up at her. 

"A little more haste would become it," she says.

"As you wish," he says. His hands ease down from her hips to slip under her chemise, and she releases him so that he can slip her undergarments down her legs. He works his way slowly back to his previous position, his arms cupped under her hips and his mouth so very close to where she wants it. Sif tenses as his lips caress her skin, arming herself against the rush of pleasure. Her limbs are warm and loose, as if she is prepared to fight. Loki nuzzles at her curls, the tip of his tongue flicking out to part her folds. She can feel how slippery she is under his searching tongue. 

"I find you a very willing audience," he says, his lips moving against her skin. 

"Then speak your part," she tells him.

"As my lady commands," he says. 

She reaches forward and grasps his helmet, guiding his face to where she thinks it ought to be. He offers no resistance to her pressure, moving obediently closer. The horns of the helmet are cool in her hands for a moment before the metal warms to her touch. They are curved, solid: they give her something to hold onto as Loki's tongue licks between her folds. The room goes hazy at the edges, and it isn't his magic, or at least, not his usual magic. Sif would admit there is a certain enchantment in the way their bodies meet, in the way he feels atop her, underneath her, inside her.

His tongue glides over her skin. Sif lifts her hips against his face and he makes a noise of satisfaction. His cries have always been part of their unspoken bargain - his voice has power the way her silence does. She must win his wordlessness the way he must win her moans. The arrangement pleases them both. As his tongue pushes into her, she feels she has the best of it. Her fingers tighten around the horns. Loki chuckles and thrusts his tongue roughly into her a few more times before seeking out the place that he knows will try her defenses. He sucks at her pearl and Sif lets her back arch, tamping down the cries that rise inside her. He will not win so easily. She has as much practice standing firm against him as he has coaxing fire into her blood. 

She tugs at his horns, sliding her hands up and down them as if she caressed some other part of him, as if she could repay the pleasure he is giving her with the touch of her hands on his helmet. His tongue settles into a slow, steady rhythm, giving her a moment to catch her breath. He knows her limits intimately. The longer their skirmishes last, the greater the rewards. Her fingertips skate over the surface of his horns as she recovers herself. 

"Shall my tongue redeem itself?" he murmurs against her skin.

"It has not yet achieved such glory," she tells him, and suddenly she wants to master him completely. She pulls his horns, pressing his face against her hips as she takes her pleasure from his tongue. He obliges, licking faster circles, sucking at her pearl until all she feels is his mouth. Her muscles tighten with anticipation, but she is her own master as she rides the wave of pleasure to its inevitable crest. As her moment of glory approaches, she makes only the softest sigh. Her muscles clench and her body shakes under his mouth. Loki groans and licks harder, his hands tightening over her backside. She allows him for a moment and then pushes him away by the horns. 

"Do you accept my amends, lady?" he asks, a smirk on his glossy mouth. 

"Not yet," she says. "Your tongue may be eloquent, Loki, but you have not atoned." She sits up and kisses him, tasting herself on his mouth as she uses both hands to remove the helmet from his head. She sets the helmet on the bed beside her and then slaps him quickly across the face. He gazes at her, dazed by the sting of it, and by the pleasure she knows he takes from her blows. She slaps his other cheek. 

"You make an excellent point," he says.

"Take off your clothes," she says, reaching into the heap of her gown and finding a crimson sash. It will do well enough. She turns to find him already bare, his pale skin gilded by the firelight. Slowly, she pulls her chemise over her head. He cannot seem to look away from her. She reaches for his arm and turns him around, binding his wrists behind his back with the sash.

"Is this my punishment for deceiving you?" he asks, grinning in anticipation. 

"Not for a moment did you deceive me," she tells him. "This is my reward for enduring your company." She pushes him toward the bed. He falls gracefully onto his side, protecting both his shoulder and the proud stiffness of his cock.

"Oh, my Lady War, you will have to work harder if you want an edge to your own tongue," he tells her, his voice tinged with his own peculiar variety of condescension and affection. "No one would believe that you had endured any hardship when you say it with such tones."

She rolls him onto his back, leaning down to take the length of him briefly into her mouth. "I find my tongue sufficient to its tasks," she tells him. 

He gasps. "Indeed. I shall not question it again." 

"Good," she says. "I am willing to buy your silence." 

"Your price is more than fair," he murmurs as she climbs onto the bed and straddles him. She gives him a moment to compose himself and to shift so that his bound wrists are not too confined. As soon as he looks up at her expectantly, she lifts herself and sinks down onto him, humming her satisfaction. She cares little about making noise now; she has kept her pride. Loki groans. She vows to herself that she will leave him speechless by the end of the evening.

She likes Loki unable to touch her. Sif leans down so that her breasts swing above his chest. Loki gazes at them hungrily, but does nothing. She likes the way his wrists press up into the small of his back and cant his hips, putting him at a particularly delicious angle inside her. She rides him, enjoying the feeling of his cock and the way he moans more and more loudly the harder and faster she bears down on him. She will have her pleasure from him, oh yes, and more. She grinds her hips against his, panting, bracing herself with her hands above his shoulders. Loki manages to catch her breast with his lips. Sif moans at the heat of his tongue and the sharp edges of his teeth. Her back arches and she sits up, crying out as pleasure surges through her like the frenzy of battle. Loki nearly whimpers as she tightens around him. 

"Shall I stop?" she asks, when she can speak.

"No!" he says, and Sif smiles. He has lost himself in her and that is victory enough. She reaches down and slips her fingers under Loki's back, fumbling apart the knot of her sash. He lifts his hips to free his hands, pushing deeper into her, and Sif gasps. Loki grasps her hips, steadying her.

"You have more strategy in you than I give you credit for," he tells her, moving slowly in her.

She lets her smile become wicked. "I shall allow you to make amends for that misjudgment as well."

"You are too kind, lady," he tells her. His hands stray to her breasts, squeezing gently.

"So it is said," she tells him. "If only in the confines of these rooms."

"I shall keep it to myself," he promises. 

"See that you do," she says. "And now, take action."

They move together. He stretches up to kiss her and she leans down to meet him, their hips bucking and jostling roughly. She shoves her tongue against his and he kisses her back with great enthusiasm. Her pleasure is on the edge of painful now, and she relishes it as she nips at Loki's mouth. He moans, louder every moment, his body trembling under hers, and she can feel the moment of his release, and hear it too, even though his mouth opens in a silent "Oh!"

They fall onto the bed together, panting.

"I am not finished with you," she informs him, pulling the edge of the blanket over herself.

"Please," he said. "I hope you are never finished with me."

"I am certain I will not be," she tells him, yawning. "You will always have more to apologize for, Loki."

She falls asleep to the sound of his quiet chuckling.

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely based on [this illustration](http://bechedor79.deviantart.com/art/Fade-Into-You-346040249) and [this one](http://bechedor79.deviantart.com/art/Ready-to-Begin-413110276) \- they both look like modern AUs, but I left them on Asgard just in case. I got "pearl" from [this page of historical euphemisms](http://historyhoydens.blogspot.com/2007/03/back-on-euphemism-express.html). Merry happy!


End file.
